


Old College Try

by Vrunka



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, First time relationships, Homophobic Slurs, Jean is always a dummy, Jean is dummy, M/M, Smut, stupid fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:24:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first year of college can be a difficult time, but for Jean Kristein, it's hell. Karma's a bitch, his roommate's an idiot and for some reason Marco Bott won't just leave him alone to suffer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old College Try

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. That college Au I promised like...months ago.

It’s raining.

Jean stands in the lobby of the lecture hall and stares out into the downpour. He doesn’t have an umbrella with him. His dorm is on the absolute opposite end of campus.

“Fucking beautiful,” he mutters. It’s just his luck; if he isn’t running late, or forgetting his key in his room or making a fool of himself in front of girls in his classes, life finds other ways to screw him over. Like flashflood-worthy thunderstorms on a day that had been sunny and clear when Jean had left.

Jean crosses his arms, cranes his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the sky between the other buildings in the academic row, but it’s no use. He’s just going to have to suck it up and get drenched. His hand is actually touching the security bar, has it pushed in halfway, when the voice stops him.

“Didn’t read the weather this morning, huh?” 

Jean stops, confused. There is a familiarity to the voice, in the tone, but when Jean turns, he doesn’t recognize the speaker. The boy is dark haired, taller than Jean, square-jawed. His cheeks are stained with a maze of freckles. He’s holding an umbrella. Jean wonders how everyone got the memo but him.

“We can share, if you want, Jean,” the boy continues and Jean is only slightly annoyed that the kid knows his name when Jean has zero idea of who he is. He doesn’t think they have a class together, but Jean has never been the most observant. “I sit behind you in Psych,” the kid says, seamlessly blending with Jean’s train of thought.

Jean blinks. “I knew that,” he says, frowning.

“Yeah, okay. My name’s Marco,” the kid says, rolling his shoulders. He rubs the hand not holding his umbrella across the back of his neck, smiling. He reminds Jean of a dog, a Retriever or a Saint Bernard. Something eager to please, big and friendly and dumb. It makes Jean uncomfortable. So he does what he’s best at.

“I don’t need your umbrella, guy,” he says, purposefully not using Marco’s name, “rain’s just water, it’s not going to kill me.” And with that, he’s turning on his heel and pushing his way out the door and into the torrential mess.

He gets back to his dorm fifteen minutes later, absolutely soaked to the bone. The guy at the front desk gives him a look when he flashes his ID, but doesn’t say anything, and Jean is thankful for it. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with people right now. He doesn’t have the energy for any of it.

Especially not for Connie.

“What the hell happened to you?” Connie asks, before Jean even has the door to the room opened fully. Jean just manages not to cringe. He had been really, really hoping that Connie would be elsewhere. But Jean’s luck is his luck, he should probably learn to get used to it.

“It’s raining,” Jean says, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t know how he’s going to get out of his clothes, they are plastered to him, fused to his skin by the rain. His backpack is just as bad, he’ll be lucky if his textbooks aren’t ruined.

“You don’t have an umbrella?”

“Of course I do, I just thought that I’d not use it and skip showering today. Of course I didn’t fucking have an umbrella. Why else do you think I’d look like this?” Jean asks, pulling his shirt away from his chest.

“I don’t know, man,” Connie is saying, spinning in his desk chair. Jean manages to get the shirt over his head with a triumphant little crow, letting it puddle at his feet as soon as it’s past his head. He moves to his belt, unclips the leather easily. The jeans are going to be a different story. “Didn’t anyone in your class offer to let you use theirs?” 

“Huh?” Jean intones, tugging uselessly at the denim. He shifts his weight to one foot, balancing shakily, and gets his fingers under the cuff.

“I said: didn’t anyone,” Jean over-balances, loses his grip on the wet matieral and falls on his ass, “offer to share their umbrella,” Connie finishes. He looks almost confused as to how Jean ended up on the floor.

“Obviously not,” Jean growls, grabbing his pant cuff again, at a better angle for it now. “Er. Well, one guy did but like,” Jean bites his lip, manages to wiggle his foot out of the clinging grip of the soaked denim, “sharing with a guy is weird. And besides, what’s the worst some rain can do? Being wet has never hurt anyone.” Though right now, at this moment, Jean’s ass does not agree.

“You could catch a cold or something,” Connie says, tilting his head. Making another chair revolution, spinning in a slow, stupid circle. “September’s not that chilly but still, wandering in a storm in the Fall is just asking for trouble.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks, Connie,” Jean says, rolling his eyes, wiggling his hips to work the material off of them. He leaves them on the ground once he’s free, pushes them over with his shirt as he stands and walks over to his dresser. “I’m not going to get sick, okay?” But almost as soon as he’s said it, as soon as the damning words have left his lips, Jean realizes he’s really cold actually. Like really, really fucking cold. Goose-pimples across his bare skin. And he’s no more than gotten the underwear drawer of his dresser open when he sneezes.

“Told you,” Connie says, sounding smug, and Jean wishes he had the energy to throttle him, but right now, all he can fathom to do is put on dry boxers and a hoodie and snuggle into his comforter and sleep for a month. He gets as far as the bed, collapses on top of the sheets with another sneeze and then he’s out like a light.

He wakes up the next morning with a fever and even though he tries to get up and get dressed he can’t even concentrate enough to get his clothes on. Connie ushers him back to bed and Jean is weak enough to listen to the insistence. He falls back asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow and doesn’t move for the next twelve hours.

The following day, even though he still feels like shit, Jean forces himself to get dressed and go to class. It’s pretty much a waste. He is a shivery mess. He can’t think through his headache. And even though he is so clearly not well, he stumbles from Math to English without anyone saying anything. After English, he has a break, thirty minutes that Jean usually uses for lunch, but he isn’t particularly hungry and the thought of sitting in the dining hall, surrounded by happy students and chatter and noise makes him feel worse. So Jean heads to his Psychology classroom early. The hall is blessedly empty and Jean takes his normal seat, flipping the desk into place and resting his head on his arms. 

This is the point where his luck, ever-so-subtly, starts to look up.

“You’re here early,” the voice says, interrupting Jean’s near-state of sleep. Jean doesn’t open his eyes, though he recognizes the voice this time.

“I’m trying to sleep,” he mutters into the desk, “if you don’t mind, would you kindly fuck off.”

“Huh?” Marco’s voice is behind him now. Jean picks his head up, rolls it to glare at Marco over his shoulder, though his glare is probably a lot less threatening than Jean intends. It’s hard to focus on being mad when it feels like his brain is going to ooze out of his ears. “Jesus, you look like hell, Jean,” Marco says, before Jean can repeat himself.

Jean narrows his eyes. “Yeah. I feel like shit. So fuck off.” But somehow, Marco takes that as an invitation to come closer, to toss his bag over the chairs dividing them and slide down after it, not using the aisle like a normal person, but just climbing right over. “I’m sick,” Jean warns, pathetically, leaning away from Marco, putting his hands up as a barrier.

Marco, once again, ignores him. Reaches past Jean’s raised hands to touch his forehead and Jean wants to be pissed off about the unwanted contact, but it’s sort of nice to have someone give some sort of a shit about his well-being.

“You’re burning up,” Marco says, frowning, running his hands along Jean’s hairline. It should be awkward, but it isn’t. The touch feels caring, medicinal. Marco’s hands are cool and nice. Jean closes his eyes. “Have you been like this all day?”

“Since two days ago,” Jean mumbles, eyes still closed.

“You should have shared my umbrella,” Marco says, something like a chuckle sticking to his words. It’s that that does it, reminds Jean of where they are. Who they are. He doesn’t know Marco from Adam, he’s letting a total stranger touch him. A total stranger is groping his face, is joking with him like they’re friends. Is acting like he cares.

Jean pulls out of Marco’s grasp so fast he nearly falls out of his seat. His eyes are opened now, narrowed and critical. Marco looks confused, mouth open slightly, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t have to fucking touch me,” Jean says.

“Sorry,” Marco says, lowering his hands, looking down and away. The tips of his ears are bright red. The color spreads across his cheek and down his neck.

Jean feels a little guilty for that blush and it’s ridiculous, but he feels like he should apologize for making Marco apologize. But that’s stupid. So he just rolls his eyes and says: “It’s whatever, dude, just don’t touch me, okay?”

Marco nods, blush not dispersing. “Right,” he says, looking back up, meeting Jean’s gaze. “You feel really hot though, it’s probably a fever. Are you sure you should be in class?”

Jean sighs, slumps in his chair. “Probably not.” he admits. His headache, which had been quelled by Marco’s hands, is returning in waves. Crashing in and dragging out. “But I can’t exactly skip.” It’s true. They were told at the beginning of the year that, while attendance didn’t matter, they would be graded on only four exams taken throughout the semester. If Jean skips, there’s a good chance he’ll miss material that is essential for one, if not all, of those exams.

“Sure you can,” Marco says. “I’ll lend you my notes.” And that’s too cliché, Marco is a fucking cliché. First his umbrella, now his notes. He’s some sort of throwback to chivalry and decency. Some relic from ages past.

Jean shakes his head, waves Marco off. “This isn’t some romance story,” he says, “you don’t have to be so nice to me.”

“What’s being nice got to do with romance?” Marco asks, blushing again, though this time he manages to keep a straight face, manages not to look away.

Jean rolls his eyes. “You know, girl in the rain meets boy with umbrella, they walk home together, bam, love. Poor, sick heroine cuts class, meets gallant hero later to review notes, bam, makeout scene, sex, marriage, love. And that’s cool, I guess, in stories or like K-Dramas but this is real life and I’m not even gay, dude.”

Marco coughs and while at first Jean thinks maybe he crossed the line and has insulted him he realizes after a moment that Marco is laughing.

Jean slumps further into his seat, rubbing at his temples. The headache is lowering his defenses, or maybe it’s just Marco. Either way, Jean is finding it hard to be his usual biting, thorny self.

“I’m serious. I’m flattered and all, but--,”

“I wasn’t coming onto you,” Marco says, smiling. He isn’t blushing any longer.

“Of course you were,” Jean says. “I’m a total stranger to you, why would you offer to help me if you weren’t expecting to get something out of it?”

“Do I really seem like that much of a doucebag?” Marco asks, nose scrunching. And in all honesty, no, he really doesn’t, but it’s the only way that Jean knows how to justify it. “Look, we’ve been in this class for almost a month and I’ve never seen you say a single word to anyone,” Marco continues once Jean shakes his head, “I thought you seemed like someone who needed a friend, is all.”

Oh.

Jean sneers, he can’t help it, guarded again. The walls back in place. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I don’t mean it as pity.” Marco glances at his hands, back up again. “Look, think of it this way. It’s partly my fault you’re sick right? So let’s say me giving you my notes is my payback for that. Okay? Even Stevens. No makeouts or sex or anything, I promise. No pity.” And he looks so earnest, and Jean is so exhausted from the shitty day he’s had that he finds himself agreeing.

“Okay,” he is saying, beyond his own power. “You’d better have neat handwriting though, if I fail a test because of your penmanship I will not be happy.”

Marco chuckles, slips out from behind his desk to grab Jean’s bag. Hands it to him once Jean is on his feet. “My handwriting’s a lot better than yours,” he says.

“Yeah, okay, okay.” Jean says, swinging his bag onto his shoulder. “I’ll just. See you whenever.”

“I can drop the notes off after class, if you want.”

Jean bites his lip. “Whatever works,” he mumbles, making for the classroom doors.

It isn’t until he’s halfway back to his dorm, walking with his head down and hands thrust deep into his pockets, that he realizes he never told Marco where he lived. He considers for a moment going back, but the thought of the walk makes his head spin. More than anything he needs to get back to his room and sleep. They only have Psychology once a week, but he can grab the notes next week.

Jean returns to his room, amazed that Connie isn’t there, crawls under his comforter, nests down in it, and falls asleep.

He dreams of Marco. Which, frankly, is kinda fucking freaky.

In the dream they don’t do anything. It isn’t about sex, it isn’t about friendship. They’re just there, standing facing one another. Marco’s hands are on Jean’s face, fingertips brushing into his hair. Jean’s eyes are open this time. Jean feels like it should be uncomfortable, but it isn’t. He waits for something to happen, but nothing does. Neither of them say anything. Jean counts the universe of freckles on Marco’s cheeks.

And then he wakes up.

Someone is knocking on the door.

Connie doesn’t knock. Jean knows who it is. He gets himself untangled from the covers, half-falls out of the bed and onto the floor then makes his way over to the door. The lock takes him a second, he’s still hazy from sleep, and he turns it the wrong way a few times. When he finally does get the door pulled open, he’s not surprised to find Marco on the other side.

“Brought the notes,” Marco says brightly, holding a stack of papers out for Jean. “I made two copies, it’s why I’m so late. You can just keep this set.” Jean blinks, confused. Late? It feels like he’s only been asleep for twenty minutes. He vaguely remembers his dream, remembers counting Marco’s freckles. Unconsciously, he traces them now, keeping count for no reason other than it feels right to. Marco shuffles, still holding the papers. “You planning on taking these?” he asks finally, shaking them slightly. “Or were you just going to keep staring at me?”

“What time is it?” Jean asks back, reaching out and taking the notes.

“Little after six,” Marco tilts his head. “You look a little better. Your color isn’t so off now.”

Jean rolls his shoulders, leans against the doorframe. “I don’t feel any better,” he admits. Which is only sort of true. Physically, he still feels groggy, exhausted, but he doesn’t feel so cold any more. And his headache is gone, which is nice. “Thanks for the notes,” he says, and he actually means it, so he hopes Marco gets that.

Marco smiles. “No problem,” he says. And though it’s his cue to go, Marco lingers. It would be easy enough for Jean to just shut the door on him, to close him out and return to sleeping, but for some reason Jean can’t. He doesn’t know why. Or maybe he does. There are warning signs everywhere, more than just his dream. More than just Marco’s easy familiarity.

“You wanna get food or something?” Jean asks, once it’s clear that Marco isn’t walking away.

Marco scratches the back of his head, shrugs. “Yeah, sure, if you feel up to it,” he says.

Thinking about it, Jean feels more than up to it. He needs food. He hadn’t really felt like eating yesterday, had sipped at some chicken noodle soup, but hadn’t even finished the bowl. Now, it’s like a wild, ravenous thing has moved into the cavity of his stomach. Jean is fucking starving.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Gimme a second to get dressed though.” And though Jean leaves the door open as he turns to cross the room and rummage through his dresser for a hoodie that isn’t sweat-drenched, Marco doesn’t enter. Marco stays out in the hall.

“How’d you know where I lived, anyway?” Jean asks, changed now, walking out into the hall and locking the door behind him.

Marco makes a face. His ears are red again, a bright, burning scarlet. Jean wonders if he hadn’t pegged it earlier, if this really isn’t Marco’s way of flirting. Even if it is, Jean feels he’s made himself clear on the subject. He isn’t gay, he’s never been gay and Marco can be as nice as he wants, it isn’t going to change that.

“You left your campus ID in class,” Marco says, “a couple of weeks ago.” Jean remembers the incident. He’d been freaking out for a solid four hours, unable to enter his dorm without his identification (even though the fucking desk girl at the time had been on duty when he’d left for class) and unable to place where he had last had it. “I’m the one who found it,” Marco continues. “I turned it in. Handy that it has your dorm hall and room number on it.” Marco bites his lip, making a face. “I just happened to remember it, that’s all. It’s why I know your name too. I’m not like. Like stalking you or anything.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” Jean drawls, digging his hands into his pockets. He starts walking, Marco follows. Just slightly back and to the left, not shoulder to shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Marco says.

“You don’t have to be. I was kidding,” Jean says. He turns his head, narrows his eyes. “Why are you walking all the way back there?”

“I don’t know.” Marco swallows, looks down at his feet. His hands are in his pockets, mirroring Jean, though Jean is not sure it’s a conscious move. “I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“By walking next to me?” Jean stops walking, postpones his consumption of food to turn and face Marco. “Are you gay?”

Marco blanches, then nods. “Well, I mean, yeah,” he says. “But I wasn’t coming onto you earlier and I. I just didn’t want you to. To be upset about it.”

“Look, I don’t really give a shit, one way or the other,” Jean says. “Just don’t be weird about it and it won’t be weird.”

Marco nods again, steps even with Jean.

And after that things are quite normal, are what Jean has come to expect from friendships by watching movies and reading books. Marco is surprisingly good at small talk, fills in for Jean’s awkwardness by always having something to say. Some observation or question. It’s not one-sided though. Jean finds himself telling Marco about his life at home, about his favorite games and music and movies. It’s weird. Jean isn’t used to it. But it feels right to talk with Marco about random shit, about the stuff that Jean is passionate about.

“Gimme your number,” Jean says, surprising himself with the words. They have finished eating, are standing in the courtyard between the dorms. Marco blushes and nods as Jean pulls out his phone. Recites his number while looking at the ground. Jean ponders how far this obvious crush that Marco has going actually goes. He wonders if it’s going to become an issue, if Marco will make it an issue.

“I’ll see you next week, I guess.” Marco says, once Jean has given him his number too.

“Or not,” Jean says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Maybe we can get lunch or something.”

Marco manages not to look too elated at that, which Jean finds sort of hilarious. The way his mouth quirks up at the edges, the way his pupils dilate just slightly. “If you want,” Marco agrees.

_

“Hey, so,” Jean is saying, kneeling down and laying his hands over Marco’s. Jean’s hands are smaller, it is no easy feat, “I was thinking. Maybe you and I. I mean. That is. You’re awfully pretty, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as pretty as you and I was just. Would you like to go out with me some time, Mikasa? For like coffee or something?”

“Jesus. That was terrible,” Marco says, removing his hands from Jean’s grasp.

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I asked for your help, asshole. I have no idea what I’m supposed to fucking say to her.”

“Well, you should probably not make it sound like a proposal for one thing. Getting down on her level if she’s sitting is nice and all, but a bended knee has a purpose, you know. And it isn’t for asking someone on a date. And two knees,” Marco makes a face. “Don’t go in on two knees either. It looks weird.”

“So what would you suggest?” Jean asks. Marco makes another face, different this time, his lips curling downward into a frown. It’s been nearly two weeks since the pouring rain; Jean has gone a little bit out of his way to include Marco in almost everything that he does. Having a friend, Jean has found, is rather addictive.

“I don’t know. Be honest with her? Have you never asked anyone out before?”

“You know I haven’t. I told you I haven’t.”

Marco frowns scratches the back of his head. “I don’t really--,”

“Oh come on,” Jean says, seating himself on the edge of the bed next to Marco. “You’re great with people, you’ve got to have something in that head beyond ‘be honest’. Honesty so far has gotten me shit.” Which is true, Jean has had three conversations with the girl in his Latin 101 class. All were brief, one-sided and terribly embarrassing, with Jean spewing compliments and Mikasa accepting them with cold thanks. It has not been a success by any definition.

“I mean,” Marco says, looking down at his hands, “I can try. But it isn’t. It’s sort of something you have to feel. Me telling you what to do isn’t ever going to read as natural, you know?”

Jean rolls his head to study Marco. He bumps their knees together, partly just to see Marco stiffen and move his knee away. Ever since that day in psychology, Marco has been very careful to never touch Jean. Some days it’s just too easy to tease him.  
“Show me, then,” Jean says. “If it’s not something you can explain, then don’t explain it. Just do it. I’ll do what you do.”

And it’s cruel. Jean knows he’s being cruel. He knows it from the way Marco’s shoulders tense, the way his breath sort of catches and releases. It’s bad enough Jean has sequestered him for dating advice when he knows very well how Marco feels. But Jean also knows Marco will do it.

“You be me,” Jean says, bumping Marco’s knee again, more purpose in it now. “I’ll be Mikasa.”

“Yeah,” Marco says. “Just gimme a second, okay?” He is biting his lip again, blush high and pink on his cheeks, highlighting his bone structure, the cut of his jaw. Marco stands. Jean stays sitting.

“Hey, Mikasa,” Marco says, like it’s easy. He is smiling his normal smile, all friendly edges. “So I was wondering, if you aren’t busy after class today, would you like to go with me to get a cup of coffee or something?” His smile quirks up a notch higher, nose crinkling. Jean watches, knowing he can never replicate this. “You see, I think you’re really cool, you’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met and I,” Marco falters. Out of sync. Jean can tell he’s lost it. That he had stopped thinking about Mikasa. “I just,” he looks away, “I don’t think this is working, Jean.”

“Well it was until you dropped character all of the sudden!” Jean admonishes, playing up his annoyance. “I was really learning something there.”

Marco narrows his eyes. “Yeah well, copying someone probably isn’t the best strategy you could go for, honestly,” he says, as close as he’s ever come to sounding actually pissed off at Jean’s bullshit. “If it isn’t coming from you, it’s hardly worth it.” And of course he’s right, Jean knows it, knows he probably will never get the balls to approach Mikasa like this, and even if he did, he knows he could never be composed about it.

“Well thanks for trying, I guess,” Jean says with a sigh, picking his feet up and stretching his legs out on the bed, “I’m just a hopeless case.”

“You’re such a drama queen.”

“I’m pretty sure that I am not the queen here.”

Marco chuckles, rolls his eyes. Turns to sit on the desk chair.

“You can sit here, you know,” Jean says, patting the bed with his foot. Jean isn’t taking up all that much space. And it’s Marco’s bed to begin with. Connie has taken up full-time residence in Jean’s room, freaking out over the fast-approaching midterms. He doesn’t even leave for meals, only for classes. Jean has been less than vigilant about the whole studying deal. He’ll cram come exam week, or at least that’s his plan.

“I’m not going to invade your space,” Marco says, perching himself on the chair.

“I told you not to be weird about it.”

Marco sighs, tipping his head forward. “I’m not being weird about anything, Jean.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jean says, sitting up. A little annoyed now, though he doesn’t completely understand why. He just wants Marco to up and admit it. He just wants Marco to fucking say something about how he feels. Jean doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what he would do if Marco did confess. Reject him, probably, and lose his only friend in the process. But times like these, when Marco is so awkward about his crush, drive Jean crazy. Make him want to be mean.

 

“You know,” he says, when Marco doesn’t respond to his first bait, “if you weren’t such a coward about it, we could probably work something out.”

And for a second, just a half a second of a second, Jean thinks he’s taken it too far. Thinks that Marco is going to stand up and punch him in the face.

But Marco’s expression just drops, goes from attentive to dark to dead and back. Then ever so slightly he tips his head to the side. “I’m pretty sure I’m not the coward here,” he says quietly. Echoing Jean’s earlier words. No joke in it though. Jean doesn’t think he’s ever seen Marco more serious.

Jean doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know how to justify how it hurts to hear Marco say something so bitingly true.

“Fuck you,” he says, falling back into a childish defense, “I’m not a coward.” But saying it doesn’t make it so, Jean knows. So he plays the cowards role. And leaves without letting Marco get another word in edgewise.

He’s knocking on the door to his dorm for five minutes, keyless because Connie has been in solitary for four days, when he realizes that Connie, for the first time in four fucking days, isn’t there. He tries calling, but Connie’s phone is off. And for the first real time since befriending Marco Bott, Jean remembers how shitty his luck is. Or maybe it’s just karma, dicking him hard for being such a dick.

He doesn’t call Marco the next day.

He stays huddled in his room, wrapped up in the covers, headphones on to drown out Connie’s noise. Connie doesn’t ask him what’s wrong until dinnertime has rolled around.

“Did you get dumped or something?” Connie asks, leaning back in his chair. Part of Jean hopes he overbalances and falls. But Connie seems in control of the motion.

“I didn’t get dumped, asshole,” Jean mutters. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Right,” Connie chuckles. “I forgot.”

Which is to say he never knew. Jean tells Connie as little as possible about his life. He doesn’t particularly want Connie as a friend.

“So what’s wrong with you?” Connie asks, ignorant to Jean’s train of thought.

“Nothing.”

“You skipped your classes,” Connie says, “you didn’t even do that willingly when you had a one-hundred and two degree fever.” He’s more observant than he looks. “Something is most definitely up with you.”

“I had a fight with someone.”

“The person who keeps calling?”

More observant indeed. Jean glances to where he left his phone, sitting solitary and sad-looking on his desk. “Bullshit anyone’s called.”

Connie makes a face. “It’s been ringing off the hook all day,” he says, leaning over and grabbing it. Tossing it at Jean’s head. “I only didn’t tell you cuz I thought you were ignoring it on purpose.”

“Cellphone’s don’t have hooks,” Jean says, more for something to say, for appearances sake than anything else. He keys in the password and waits. Nine missed calls. From Umbrella Guy. Jean rolls his eyes. He should apologize, he’s sure Marco was calling to apologize. He should call him back. But he doesn’t. Instead he tucks his phone under his pillow and looks over at Connie. “Any idea what the weather’s supposed to be like tomorrow?”

-

It’s raining.

Jean stands in the lobby of the lecture hall and stares out into the downpour. He was prepared this time, knew beforehand that it would be, but the wrath of nature (and Jean’s luck) is still something of a surprise.

“I’m sorry,” the voice says, like Jean knew it would. He turns, Marco is blushing, looking down at the ground. He is holding an umbrella. “I had no right to say that to you.”

Jean shrugs. “Maybe you were right, huh? You don’t have to apologize for that.”

Marco looks up, smiles just a little bit, only the corners of his mouth turning upward. “Did you forget yours again?”

Jean shakes his head. “It only seemed appropriate. When I read the weather, I sort of couldn’t resist.”

“You’re gonna catch a cold again, you idiot, in the week before finals.”

“I thought we were going to share,” Jean says, stressing the word thought. Drawing it out. Marco smiles.

“Fucking romance cliché,” he says, stepping even with Jean, “I thought you hated those.”

“Tell you what, so long as we don’t make out in the rain, it’ll be okay. Okay?”

Marco rolls his eyes. “I know you aren’t gay, Jean. Did you ever think maybe that’s why I,” he stops, bites his bottom lip. Seems to come to some conclusion. “It’s not about not making you uncomfortable anymore. It’s about not getting my hopes up.”  
Jean hadn’t thought about it that way.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. So sorry if I’m awkward sometimes.”

Jean rolls his shoulders, bumps it purposefully against Marco’s. “I guess it can’t be helped then. So let’s get going. All this feeling talk,” Jean mock shivers, “I’m going to have to, like, fuck ninety bitches to get my sexuality back on course here.”  
“You really aren’t funny,” Marco says, but he’s chuckling, shoulders shaking slightly. He steps out into the rain, pushing the umbrella ahead of him, opening it. Holding it out for Jean.

It isn’t actually big enough to fully cover two mostly grown boys. But Jean doesn’t find that out until they’re back at Marco’s dorm. Until he sees the way that Marco’s right side, from shoulder to knee, is drenched; while Jean is completely dry. It says something about the two of them, about Marco and his priorities and nature. Jean realizes if he could just get over himself and accept it, he could probably really love Marco.

But he can’t just change.

And he really isn’t into dudes.

-

Midterms happen.

Jean holes up in Marco’s room to study the weekend before exams. Marco’s roommate begrudgingly accepts Jean’s presence. Not that Jean gives a shit one way or another. He never even rightly learned Marco’s roommate’s name (Samuel or Simon or something stupid and titled with a S). They sit near each other in Psych and grin at each other so much during the test that the professor threatens to fail them both on grounds of cheating if they don’t cut it out.

All in all, it isn’t nearly as bad as Jean had expected. 

The week after exams is Thanksgiving break. Jean promises to text Marco over the holiday and then forgets until Friday night. He’s a little surprised when Marco doesn’t answer in the first couple of rings, and then Marco does answer, and Jean understands why he was so slow to.

Because Marco sounds happy, bubbly. Like he’d just been laughing at the most fantastic joke ever. There’s a breathlessness to his hello, and a smile that Jean knows has nothing to do with him. And Jean is jealous; suddenly, stupidly, viciously jealous.  
“Jean is that you?” Marco asks from the other end of the line. Someone over there says something, Jean can’t hear the words, but he hears the muffled sound of their talking. Jean hears Marco drop the phone away from his hear, probably checking to see if the call was dropped. “Jean, I have caller ID you dumbass and you know I have your number.”

“Sorry,” Jean says, belatedly. Awkwardly. The anger is in his face, buzzing behind his eyes and in his nose. Marco is halfway across the country and Marco is having a great fucking time without him. “I think I lost signal for a second there.”

“Ah,” Marco breathes. It still sounds like he’s grinning. “So, what’s up?”

“I don’t know,” Jean answers honestly, “I just promised that I’d call. So I am.” He tightens his grip on the phone and looks down at the floor. “What are you up to?”

“I have friends over,” Marco says, and then he pauses. Jean hears the other voice again and Marco chuckles at whatever was said.

“I shouldn’t keep you from it then,” Jean says. It feels like his throat is coated in sand, the words rip and tear as he says them. He desperately wants Marco to contradict him.

“Yeah, okay,” Marco says, not getting it. Not hearing how much Jean needs him to stay on the line. “I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Mm,” Jean hums, blinking. “Sounds like,” But Marco has already hung up, “fun.” Jean says, to the dead air at the other end of the line. His eyes sting, and he’s having trouble breathing.

Jean sits at his desk, heavily. He feels like he wants to punch something. Like he could scream. Instead, he buries his head in his hands and breathes into the wood of his desk. The familiar scent of his home. The soothing chiming from the clock in the hall, reminding him what hour it is. Seven chimes. Seven-o-clock. Jean picks his head up and reaches for his computer. Boots his laptop up with determination.

He picks Mikasa’s email address out of one of the mass emails his Latin professor had sent out, copy pastes it into a blank form and somehow, without sounding like too much of an idiot, composes her a letter asking her out for coffee. Jean tries to keep it casual sounding, steals more from Marco’s little roleplay than anything else and hits send before he can change his mind.

-

By the time Sunday rolls around and Jean has gotten back to campus, he doesn’t feel any better, is still angry at Marco for being such an asshole. Even if it wasn’t intentional. He sends Marco a text, telling him that he isn’t feeling all that well and isn’t up to hanging out. Marco’s response is almost immediate. Jean hates him for that too. For how sincere his stupid ‘feel better soon :D’ looks. Jean goes to bed early, still angry, and wakes up at 3AM.

Connie is asleep, mouth open, snoring loudly. Jean tries to turn over and ignore it, tries to force himself back to sleep, but it isn’t any use. He gets his phone, pulls on a pair of sweats, throws his IDs and his keys into his pockets and leaves the room. He calls Marco when he’s outside of Marco’s building and waits until Marco answers.

“Hello?” It’s sleepy sounding this time, foggy. Jean isn’t used to hearing Marco sound like that, sounding so out of it.

“Can you come down? Or let me up? I don’t care which.”

“I thought you were sick,” Marco says.

“Well, I’m not. And I,” Jean doesn’t know. He swallows, feels something in his throat click. “Can you just.”

“Time is it?” Marco asks, sighing. It sounds like he’s moving, a slight rustling from his end of the call.

“Little after three-thirty.”

“Why in the world are you up at this ungodly hour?”

Jean shrugs even though Marco can’t see the motion.

“Just couldn’t sleep, I guess?” Marco says. Like he could see Jean’s shrugs. Like he knows.

“Guess not.”

“Hold on one second,” Marco says, and Jean can hear the sounds of him switching shoulders, passing the phone from one hand to the other. Right shoulder to left, movement conducive to putting on shoes. “You downstairs?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Be down in a minute.”

“Okay.” Jean says and he bites his lip as the line goes dead. He doesn’t know how to interpret how he feels, he doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He has a date with Mikasa tomorrow--today. He shouldn’t be here, bothering Marco at this early an hour.  
The door he’s standing in front of opens and Marco pops his head out. He looks tired, his hair is a mess, but he smiles anyway, motions Jean in.

“How was your break?” Marco asks, like there is nothing wrong, like it’s three in the afternoon as opposed to the morning.

“Boring mostly,” Jean answers, jamming his hands into his hoodie pockets. He follows when Marco pushes the door to the stairs open and starts up. “You?”

“It was nice to be home again for a little bit, you know?” Marco says, “But it’s nicer to be back. I’ve gotten used to things here. Independence and responsibility.” He turns slightly, grinning.

“You’re probably the only teenager in the entire world to feel that way,” Jean says, deadpan. “Where are we going?”

“My room,” Marco says, like it should be obvious. “Samuel’s out. Said something about staying over at his girlfriend’s tonight, I don’t mind having the room to myself.”

And it’s too cliché again. Too scripted. Too easy.

Jean reaches out, grabs the back of Marco’s sweater. Marco’s expression changes, easy smile stiffening out. There’s a question in the quirk of his eyebrows, the curl of his lips but Jean doesn’t know how to answer it.

“I’m not going to sleep in Samuel’s bed,” Jean says, quietly, more to himself than to Marco, “we both know that, right?”

Marco swallows. “I don’t really know what you’re--,”

But he does. Jean knows he does. He knows Marco is lying by Marco’s blush. And he doesn’t know why, but it pisses him off. So Jean tugs hard on Marco’s shirt, forces him to lean forward, to catch the railing to keep from falling down the stairs and breaking his neck.

It would be easier if Jean were on the higher step, their height difference is already something Jean doesn’t quite know what to do with. But he makes do. He braces the hand not holding Marco’s shirt on Marco’s neck, lets his fingertips just brush the bottom edge of Marco’s earlobe, lets his thumb rest on the cut of Marco’s jaw. Jean balances on his toes, raising himself that last bit of distance.

And then they’re kissing.

Marco’s free hand is in Jean’s hair almost immediately, his palm is warm against Jean’s ear. He is more proficient at this than Jean, it’s obvious by the soft lines of his mouth, not nervous and clamped like Jean’s.

“This is a really bad idea,” Marco says when they part. He’s still leaning forward, Jean is still holding him in place.

“I know it is,” Jean says. But he doesn’t let go.

The warning signs have been impossible to ignore. This is going to end poorly for both of them.

“I have a date with Mikasa tomorrow,” Jean says, biting his lip.

Marco chuckles, breath ghosting through Jean’s hair. “You finally got the balls to ask her?”

“Only after,” Jean trails off, loosens his grip enough the Marco can lean back a little. So that Jean can properly see his face. “Yeah. I did.”  
“I’m not going to be some practice test for you, Jean. I’m not a replacement for her and I’m not a Plan B.”  
“I know you aren’t,” Jean says. And he does know that, but it didn’t stop him.  
“You should probably go then,” Marco says, touching Jean’s hand where it’s curled into the fabric of his sweatshirt, loosening it gently. “Sorry that I can’t give you what you want. Won’t.”  
“You aren’t mad?”  
Marco shakes his head. “I’m not mad.” Though he has every right to be. “But I. I need you to not be here right now. Okay?”  
Jean nods. Lets his hand fall to his side. “Okay.” He says. And he isn’t quite sure why, but saying it sort of makes him feel like crying. “I should go.”  
“I’ll see you later,” Marco says.  
“Right, okay.” Jean says again, though it sounds stiff and forced, even to him. He turns and walks down the stairs and back out into night. He needs to be alone, needs somewhere he can hole up and lick his wounds. But it’s almost four AM and he has nowhere to go but back to his room.

The date, to be blunt, is a disaster.

Jean wakes up late for class, a by-product of his three AM adventure, but gets there in time to meet Mikasa and some guy. Some guy, he finds out, is named Eren and is probably the douchiest douche that Jean has ever met. And that’s including Jean himself. Eren follows them to coffee and makes light of everything that Jean says and doesn’t order anything and the entire time Mikasa watches Eren like he’s some sort of God or the one true love of her life and the whole thing makes Jean sick, so he excuses himself as early as possible and escapes back to his dorm.

He calls Marco on the walk back, but it goes to voicemail and Jean remembers belatedly that Marco has French and that he’s probably still bothered about that kiss. About being a runner-up prize. And Jean feels guilty about that, he really does, but he also doesn’t really know how to cope with all the emotions that get tangled up in him when he thinks about Marco, or Marco’s blush, or Marco touching some other guy or kissing Jean in the stairs. He’s confused and teenaged and he’s allowed to make mistakes sometimes, isn’t he?

“Aren’t you what?” Connie asks, glancing up from his DS and Jean realizes he’d been talking out-loud to himself.

“It’s nothing,” Jean says, closing his eyes. “Just talking to myself.” He turns slightly, cracking an eye open to glance at his phone. It’s nestled on the pillow next to his head. But Marco hasn’t called him back yet. Which is sort of fucking annoying.  
Because, even though Jean should probably be thinking about classes, or the Psych exam he knows is coming up or the English paper he’s supposed to be writing, all he can focus on is remembering Marco’s lips against his. The way Marco had looked in the poor lighting of the stairwell, the pink of his cheeks, the brown of his eyes, the sort of half-smile he’d worn when he’d asked Jean to leave. And it’s a problem, it really is, because Jean had gone and made a big deal about the whole thing and now there’s no way for him to explain that maybe he’d been wrong.

Maybe he’s been gay all along.

Or at least gay for Marco.

Ever since Marco smiled and offered Jean his umbrella like some poorly-written fanfiction romantic lead.

And it’s in the middle of all these thoughts, all these stupid feelings and emotions and dilemmas, that Jean’s phone rings.

“I need you here,” Jean says, before Marco can say anything, before Jean even really knows it’s him.

“What in the world are you talking about?” Marco asks, and he’s smiling. Jean can tell by the lilt of his voice.

“I don’t know,” Jean admits, sitting up, cradling the phone against his ear. Connie is there. Jean can’t bring himself to care. “I just. I needed to hear your voice. Today has been something of a shitstorm.”

Marco chuckles. “You had a late night.”

“You could say that. Can you come over?”

Marco pauses. Jean can imagine perfectly the face he’s making, probably something a little sad, lip caught between his teeth, blush from his ears to his cheeks. Embarrassed and shy and perfect.

“I don’t think so,” Marco says, and Jean’s illusion shatters.

“Huh?”

“I said I don’t think so. Not right now, you know? It’s all too fresh.”

Jean doesn’t know how to respond to that. He’d scripted how this was supposed to go, what Marco was supposed to say. He had planned it. And now Marco was ruining all that. Jean bites his lip, closes his eyes and says, “Too fresh? You must be fucking kidding me.”

“Jean, I’m not--,”

“This isn’t about just you anymore, you selfish prick. This is about us. About you and me.” He opens his eyes, tries to cut himself off, to bite his tongue and keep from saying anything else. But his temper is quick and vicious and Jean’s never had very good control of himself. “Does that guy you were fucking over break know you think about me when you jerk off, Marco? Cuz I would say about then is when you should have pussied--,” but Jean never gets to finish his sentence because, for the second time in their friendship, Marco hangs up on him.

“I don’t think you should have said that,” Connie says, showing very little regard for his own self-worth. Staring at Jean with open pity.

He’s right, Jean knows. He’s been finding out lately that Connie is actually rather adept at social interactions, as weird as that seems. But knowing that Connie is right, and that Connie would have done the right thing, doesn’t make Jean feel any better. Doesn’t make him want to lob his phone at Connie’s head for good measure any less.

“If you don’t want me to rip your face off with my hands, Connie,” Jean says, covering his eyes in genuine exasperation, letting his phone drop to his lap, “I highly suggest you mind your own fucking business.”

Connie snorts, unafraid. “At least I have fucking business,” he says, standing. Jean can hear the rustle of his clothes as he stretches, “because I’m not a dick to absolutely everyone who gives a shit about me. You should try it, Jean. Being nice for a change.” He tips his head, making a face. Jean judges him from between his fingers, has to bite his tongue to bleeding to keep himself from standing up and punching stupid Connie in his stupid right, asshole face.

But then Connie is grabbing his jacket and his keys and being mad doesn’t seem nearly as important to Jean as not having yet another person pissed at him, so Jean says, “I’m sorry okay, I’m just tired.”

“You’re confused,” Connie says, holding the door knob with one hand, leaning against it. Infinitely wise and juvenile and slight, “and that’s to be expected I guess. But like. Don’t take it out on everyone else. Marco’s cool. Gay, but cool. And he really likes you I think and watching you ruin that sort of sucks. So cut it out, okay?”

Jean wonders when Connie got so observant, wonders why he never noticed before, but then Connie cracks and smile, twists the knob and trips into the corrider with a: “Or don’t take my advice and like kill yourself or whatever. That’s cool too, I guess, since they’ll push me through all my classes with A’s if you do.” and Jean remembers that, deep down, Connie really is an idiot. A well-meaning idiot, but an idiot.

Jean rolls his eyes, still angry and upset, but less so. Connie’s blunt presence had helped. He picks up his phone from where he dropped it and calls Marco back.

It isn’t surprising when Marco doesn’t answer, but Jean is too embarrassed to leave a message apologizing so he hangs up. He calls again, about fifteen minutes later, and, though Marco still doesn’t answer, Jean leaves a rambling half-apology. Another fifteen minutes and Jean calls again.

“I only think about you sometimes,” Marco says by way of a greeting. Jean doesn’t know what to say. He swallows, listens to the sound of Marco breathing. The slight smack of his lips as he licks them before speaking. “The other half the time I think about Ryan Gosling. So now you know.”

“Yeah,” Jean manages, closing his eyes. “Thanks for that image, you fucking faggot. Like I didn’t have enough self-respect issues but I mean really? Ryan Gosling? Could you be more like a teenage girl?”

Marco chuckles. The sound carries easily over the line. “I take it your date didn’t go well?”

“It didn’t, though that isn’t why I called you. I know…I know how it seemed, I do. But I didn’t mean--,”

“I got your message. I know you didn’t mean it like that.”

“So are we okay then?” Jean asks, crossing his legs. Wishing he didn’t feel as awful and apprehensive as he does.

“I mean, I guess? I don’t even know what we are, honestly,” Marco says, sighing. “What is it you want from me?”

“I don’t have an answer for that.”

Marco smiles, Jean can hear it in the way he exhales, can imagine the curl of Marco’s lips. “But you’re up to it? To this? Figuring it all out as we go along?”

Jean nods, remembers that Marco can’t see him. “Yeah.” He says, hating how breathless and excited he sounds. “I’m up to it.”

“Then let me in, asshole,” Marco says and for a second, Jean is confused, then he nearly falls out of the bed in his haste to get to the door. He drops his phone as he clicks the lock, and grabs it off the floor as he pulls the door open.  
“Hey,” Jean says, phone back to his ear, uncharacteristically nervous.

“Hey,” Marco echoes. His own phone is put away. He reaches out, pushes Jean’s hand down. “You gonna invite me in?”

Jean steps back, Marco steps in. The door closes lightly behind them.

“I’m sorry,” Jean says.

“Yeah, I got that,” Marco says, still smiling. He crosses the room without asking, sits on the edge of Jean’s bed. It’s the first time he’s ever done that, voluntarily entered Jean’s space. Jean follows, stands in front of Marco like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. And, to be honest, he really doesn’t. It’s all too new, there are too many variables and components and equations and Jean’s never been very good at math.

“Are you nervous?” Marco asks, tipping his head. He touches Jean’s hand, careful and reverent, curls his finger slightly to drag his nail along the skin.

Jean shivers, shakes his head. “Of course not,” he says, though it is a dirty lie. He steps closer, lets Marco’s fingers slide around his wrist, tracing the bones, slow and maddening.

“We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to,” Marco says. But his fingers don’t stop their circuit. His pupils are huge, obliterating completely the chocolate of his irises.

Jean swallows, touches Marco’s hair, runs his fingers down to the tops of Marco’s ears. They aren’t red, Marco isn’t blushing. The same cannot be said of Jean. “I want to,” he says. Swallowing again. His throat is dry, his mouth sticky with his nerves. He follows the bob of Marco’s throat with his eyes, as Marco takes a similar breath. And it’s so fucking intimate, so different than what Jean has come to expect. But it isn’t bad, this fragile way Marco is handling him. 

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do,” Jean says, roughly. Tightening his grip and shaking Marco’s head slightly. Forcing things back to what he’s used to. “So can we just get on with it?”

But maybe those are the wrong words, or maybe Jean just really underestimated what he was getting himself into, because before he’s even completed the thought Marco is moving, pulling Jean into and under him. His lips are on Jean’s before Jean’s back hits the mattress, and it’s rough and needy and so different than the night before. Much more desperate. Much more passionate and it makes Jean wonder just how long Marco has been holding this back, how hard it must have been for him to push Jean away last night.

Marco’s knee is somehow between Jean’s thighs, pushing against his crotch and Jean hadn’t been hard but the friction is starting to spark the interest of his hormones, so he spreads his legs just a little bit more and rubs back against the pressure. Groans into the kisses which are quickly becoming sloppy. Marco chuckles, breath puffing against Jean’s lips. His hands leave Jean’s arm, slide down his hips to hold him by the belt loops. And then his knee is gone, and Jean wants to complain, but he can’t because Marco is kissing him again, twisting slightly as he does so to fill the space better. Jean makes another sound at the change of angle, gasps into Marco’s mouth, his hands relocating to Marco’s shoulders, gripping the material hard. Marco’s hands are on his thighs, urging Jean to raise his hips, propping his legs on Marco’s, bending him almost double.

Jean is vaguely aware that this is the girl’s position, but he can’t find it in himself to complain. His abs protest the stretch, but the feeling is secondary to the feel of Marco’s hands on his waist, fingers loosening the button of his jeans. He hisses when Marco touches the bare skin of his hips, working the material down, fingernails scraping over the sharp cut of Jean’s bones. Marco gets them pushed down enough to work, doesn’t move to make the going easier and Jean has a one-millisecond moment of ‘oh shit this is really happening’ and then Marco is touching his cock.

Touching. His. Cock. Holy fucking shit.

Jean gasps and sputters, like his body can’t decide which direction the air should be going. And Marco is grinning against his temple while Jean’s fingers spasm in his hair and his hips twitch, pushing him closer to that offending hand.  
At first, Marco doesn’t move, just presses the flat of his palm against Jean’s erection; but Jean’s shifting, or maybe Marco’s own impatience, cause him to move. He tilts his head back as he wraps his hand around Jean’s cock and his smile is downright devilish, predatory, almost un-Marco in its’ intensity.

“How’s it feel?” he asks, pumping his arm, slow and smooth. Jean shudders and jerks, groans something that might be an answer but probably isn’t. He can’t formulate thoughts beyond incoherent curses. Marco’s thumb presses down on a spot just under the head of Jean’s dick and Jean swears he pulls some of Marco’s hairs out by the root with how hard he jerks. His knees clench around Marco’s sides and Jean is sort of aware (though the thought is distant and unimportant under the weight of Marco’s warm skin sliding over his skin) that Marco will probably have bruises when their done.

He rocks up into Marco’s hand, tosses his head to the side and shudders again. The way Marco is looking at him is driving him crazy, making him feel both embarrassed and more turned on at the same time.

“Wanna try something?” Marco asks, licking his lips, leaning his upper body closer. The movement presses his crotch against Jean’s ass. The incessant press of his cock is impossible to mistake for anything else and Jean grinds down on it, eliciting a sharp groan from Marco. Breaking that flushed but in-control façade. He bites his lip, eyes fluttering, free hand fisting in the sheet next to Jean’s head. Eventually, he lets go of Jean’s cock, switching his grip to Jean’s hip, halting him. “We’re gonna try something,” Marco says, panting slightly.

And then he’s backing off of Jean completely, tugging Jean’s jeans and boxers off as he goes. Jean rids himself of his own shirt as Marco undresses and it’s almost surreal how normal this feels. Because this is really the time that Jean is expecting to have his freak out.

Instead, he’s fascinated by Marco’s body. The sturdy hips, his thin limbs. He’s freckled all over; they spread across his chest like a map. He was right about the bruises, too. Dark and purple, pressed into Marco’s sides, just over his hips. To anyone else they’d just look like blotches, but Jean flushes at the fact that it’s his knees that made those. His eyes travel further down as Marco sheds his jeans and Jean has to remember to breath. Because Marco’s cock is out now—his cock for Christ’s sake and Jean can’t look away—and it’s rosy and hard and it’s all for Jean, all because of Jean and that’s sort of a terrifyingly wonderful thought. Jean swallows as Marco climbs back into the bed.

“You okay?” he asks, apparently also expecting the panic.

“I’m fine.”

Marco nudges him with his elbow. “It’s rude to stare.” But he’s a huge fucking hypocrite, because he’s staring too, eyes roving down Jean’s thin chest to his crotch and back. It makes Jean self-conscious again and he begins to adjust his leg to cover himself but Marco stops him with a hand on his knee. “Don’t.”

Jean is blushing now, looking away, because Marco is almost too intense, but he listens, relaxes his knee while Marco resituates himself between Jeans thighs. He hooks his hands under Jean’s knees and places them around his waist. Lining their hips up.  
And it isn’t what Jean was prepared for, isn’t where he thought they were going with this, but it’s too nice to complain. Marco’s hand holds their cocks together. Skin to skin. Jean’s already covered in pre-cum, and some of the slick gets on Marco’s, easing the way. It’s addictive and amazing and Jean can’t voice any of how he’s feeling. Can only gasp and moan into Marco’s hair, fingers digging into Marco’s shoulders as Marco jerks them both off. Marco’s other hand is tracing circles on the back of Jean’s thigh, trailing ever inward and back out.

Jean, even through the feeling of hard flesh against his, is hyper-aware of that finger.

“You can do it,” he pants, finally. When he’s found the air to breathe, let alone speak, and his words are stilted but Marco seems to understand because that finger slips down further and presses bluntly against Jean’s ass. Circles his entrance.

“You mean this?”

Jean swallows. Closes his eyes. Opens them again. “I mean that.”

He isn’t sure what reaction he was anticipating, but it certainly isn’t the one he gets. Marco’s hand grips them together tighter, briefly, and he shudders, forehead dipping to lean against Jean’s face. For a moment, Jean thinks he’s come, just from that, but then Marco speaks, voice pitched low. Spoken into Jean’s skin, against his throat.

“You have no idea the things I want to do to you, Jean,” he says and Jean smirks.

“I have a little bit of an idea,” he counters. Though his voice shakes when he says it.

Marco picks his head back up. He isn’t smiling. His face is as serious as Jean has ever seen it. “I mean it,” he licks his lips, squeezes their cocks together again, causing Jean to shiver, “I. I don’t think. I mean if. If you change your mind or don’t. Don’t. I. I don’t know what I.” And Jean gets it, pulls Marco’s head in to kiss him, close-lipped and earnest.

“I’m not going to regret this.” Which is a big promise to make, but one Jean means.

Marco nods, once, but he removes his finger from Jean’s ass regardless. “What are you doing?” and Jean hates to admit it, but it comes out more like a whine than anything else. Marco smiles, biting his lip.

“We can do that next time,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You aren’t going to—gnh fuck,” Jean hisses as Marco beings to move his hand again, pushing their cocks together. Jean’s hip press up of their own accord, fucking into Marco’s fist and it’s good, it’s too good. He tangles one of his hands in Marco’s hair, uses that grip to keep Marco’s face where he wants it, kissing any part of it that he can reach. The other his runs down Marco’s arm. Pausing at his elbow. “Can,” Jean asks, breathing against Marco’s cheek. And silently Marco lets go of his own cock, lets Jean’s hand take its place.

At first, Jean just traces the shape with his fingers. Circles the head and gauges the way Marco’s features tense, eyes clenching closed, lips parting. Panting into Jean’s mouth. He runs his fingers up and down, twice, three times before taking Marco more fully in hand. Marco’s accompanying groan almost sounds like a sob. And Jean realizes maybe he’s being a little too indulgent. He swallows and stutters, begins to apologize, but Marco crushes their mouths together, whining high in his throat and Jean gets the message. Strokes Marco the way Marco was stroking him, firm and quick.

Things go fast from there, messy and young and perfect. Marco’s strokes are more experienced, he flicks his thumb against the crown of Jean’s dick, runs his pointer along the slit. Jean fights to keep up. To move his hands like Marco’s mirroring the movements. His orgasm takes him almost by surprise. One second he’s focused on matching Marco’s rhythm, the next his muscles are snapping taunt and something shivers loose in his gut, uncoils and shakes and everything goes quiet but for the rushing sound of Jean’s blood in his ears. He lays there gasping, sticky and spent and it takes him a moment to piece together what happened.

“I came,” he says, weakly, licking his lips.

Marco smiles. “I noticed.” And he’s too kind to say it, but Jean feels the impatient twitch in Marco’s cock and slowly he resumes his ministrations.

It doesn’t take long. Three good strokes and thumb pressing into that spot that Marco kept touching, just below the head. Marco groans Jean’s name as he comes, crying into Jean’s hair as he adds an even bigger mess to the mess on Jean’s stomach.  
The two lay together, Marco’s forehead pressed into Jean’s cheek, Jean’s hand resting in their combined essence, fingers absolutely covered in Marco’s cum. And he couldn’t care less that it’s dirty, that they’ll both need a shower after that, that he’s pretty much kissed any hope of heterosexuality goodbye forever. All Jean cares about is Marco, the pulse he can feel in Marco’s fingers as they stroke his sides lightly.

“Still okay?” Marco asks, sounding hesitant.

“I’m okay,” Jean says, nodding slightly, dislodging Marco’s face. Slowly Marco sits up, studies the mess they’ve made.

“No freaking out?”

“Do I look like I’m freaking out?” Jean asks, raising his eyebrows. Marco shakes his head. “Are you freaking out?”

“Maybe a little,” Marco admits, tipping his head. “I just never thought I’d get,” he shakes his head, gathers some of Jean’s sheet and uses it to wipe at the cum on Jean’s stomach. “It’s just nice.”

Jean rolls his eyes, squeezes Marco’s sides with his knees, smiling when he presses into the bruises and Marco winces. “You don’t have to be so sappy about it.” But he does, Jean knows, because Marco, at heart, is sappy. If he’s going to honest with himself, Jean sort of wants to be sappy about it too, but he has an image to maintain.

Marco chuckles, frees himself from the confines of Jean’s legs to gather the soiled blanket. “So is this how it ends?” he asks and for a moment Jean feels his stomach plummet but then Marco laughs again, realizing Jean’s distress and clarifies. “I mean those K-dramas you’ve got running in your head. Damsel in the rain, romantic lead with the umbrella?”

Jean blinks, trying to remember. And then he does, and he grins. “Not quite,” he says, sitting up. His stomach muscles ache as he does, complaining at the position they held for so long, but Jean ignores them. He lifts his hand, crooks his finger at Marco, urging him back. When Marco’s in range, he runs his fingers through Marco’s hair, rubbing the tips of his ears. “This is how they end,” he whispers, raising his lips to press them chastely against Marco’s.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's that...hope you liked it. It kept writing itself and getting longer and longer and longer and just. Yeah. I think this is a good end. There'll probably (definitely) be more of this pairing in this verse in the future (hopefully not five months later) so look out for that if you liked this and whatnot.


End file.
